Last Grey Ship
by Cloaked Eagle
Summary: After the discovery of the last resting place of Maglor, can a group of young 21st century archaeologists bring news to his kin?
1. Archaeology

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything mentioned in this chapter except Robert Taylor, Mary Cloud, Sandra Newton, and the basic plot. Oh, and the frogs.  
  
Archaeology  
  
"Bob? Get down here! We've found something!"  
  
Robert Taylor looked up from his computer, annoyed. He had been cataloguing finds ten hours a day, six days a week, for the past two months, and was heartily sick of it. However, he was even more sick of the periodic interruptions from his teammates. About twice a day they would call him down into the pit, to show him yet another interesting carving of a frog. To be fair, there had been fewer frogs recently, and more from their huge inscription.  
  
Oh, yes, the inscription. They had been so pleased when someone – Bob couldn't remember who – had accidentally stumbled against the soil-covered wall and knocked off a layer of dirt to reveal the first line of text. They had quickly cleaned off all of the wall that was at that time above the soil level, and started on the long task of digging out the rest. It was currently a full ten yards long, and was still changing alphabets every two lines. Yet they still hadn't found a single one that they recognised. Occasionally they came across a letter that looked something like something someone – usually Mary – half remembered seeing in some book, somewhere, and called him down to look at it, but none of his subsequent trawls of the internet had shed any light on them.  
  
As he wandered over to the pit the team were working in, he passed under the last remaining archway of St. Paul's Cathedral. After the Great Fire of 2032, the government had not felt the need to rebuild such a blatant symbol of organised religion. In an earlier age they would have, but after the world had realised the harm state-sponsored religion had caused, the churches had been left to rot.  
  
So the cathedral had been given over to the archaeologists, despite the protests of developers that such a prime site, right at the heart of London, should be turned into offices with all speed. At the time, Bob had argued vehemently for the chance he now had, but now, with the team constantly dragging him into their pit, he was about ready to lay the foundations himself.  
  
At this point, Bob was jerked out of his reverie by the ground falling away beneath him. He had reached the centre of the ruined cathedral, and before him lay the deep pit his team was working in. He walked around it until he came to the loudspeaker, used to relay messages to people at the top, now that the pit was too big for shouting. Beside it, a staircase wound back and forth against the wall of the pit, leading down almost a hundred feet to the current level of excavation.  
  
It was this staircase that he now descended, passing layers of soil, rock and history with each step. The walls of the hole were close around him, but he had no fear of them falling. The shaft had been dug out using a digging laser, the only hi-tech piece of equipment the team could afford, and as a result the sides were solid rock, melted and reformed into a surface as smooth as glass. About two thirds of the way down, the soil became packed stone, and the hole opened out into a reasonable-sized chamber. At least, on three sides it did. The fourth...  
  
The fourth wall was plain rock, or had once been. Long ago, though, someone had carved two lines of flowing letters into it, letters no one in the team recognised. Then below that, two more lines in a different alphabet. And on it stretched, thirty or more feet downwards, countless different alphabets, all showing what was presumably the same message.  
  
It would have been far easier if they'd installed a lift, rather than forcing any visitors to make a trek that was virtually a small mountain climb. There was, however, little money to spare in post-Fire London, and the team had been lucky even to get digging equipment beyond the standard spade and trowel ensemble. There was no way they were going to push for anything more.  
  
As if summoned by his thoughts, the small digger at the bottom of the pit entered his field of vision. It wasn't running, however, which struck Bob as odd. With such a low budget, they didn't turn the digger off unless they were stopping for a substantial amount of time. Starting it up again cost a lot, money which they just didn't have.  
  
He was still musing over this when he reached the bottom of the stairway. Glancing back up, he could see the line, six feet or so above him, where the soil had filled the bottom of the chamber. Those six feet of soil were now piled up against the back wall, sloping down to where the team were all crouched around the inscription wall. He sighed. Yes, they'd found another interesting letter all right.  
  
Mary Cloud noticed him. "Bob! Come over here! You /have/ to see this!"  
  
"Mary," he said, as he walked carefully over, "I've seen enough of your kind of half familiar letters to last me a life... time..." His voice trailed off as she moved aside to let him see the last two lines of letters. Very familiar letters...  
  
"It's Latin," said Mary into the silence. "Not only the letters, but the actual words. Sandra, tell him."  
  
Sandra Newton, the linguist of the group, looked up from her study of the words. "It says, 'I, Maglor, Son of Fëanor, departed this world in the year five thirty-two of the Fifth Age of the Sun. The phrase is...' and I can't understand the final words. They don't seem to be Latin at all."  
  
Bob frowned. Something about those words had sparked a distant memory... something about an oath, no, an Oath, and the First Age...  
  
But even as he tried to grasp it, it slipped away, and he returned his attention to Sandra. "So you can't read these last words?"  
  
She frowned. "Well, I can try. I'm not sure /how/ these vowels should be read, but I think it's something like 'Mernyë cenë'. Of course, I –" she cut herself of with a gasp as all of the group span around to face the sudden light.  
  
The wall opposite the inscription had lit up, as glowing silver lines traced their way across it. They outlined a map, on which two stars shone brightly, almost level with each other, but one much further to the east. Around the map, the silver light continued to trace letters like those in the top row of the inscription, but Bob was no longer paying attention. The memory that had eluded him earlier came rushing back. He could name places on that map, that map of a place that had been called fantasy. He could put a name to the whole world.  
  
Middle-Earth.

* * *

'Mernyë cenë' is Quenya, 'I want to see'.  
  
I claim no knowledge of architecture, archaeology, or Latin, so apologies for any hideous mistakes in those. I do claim a passing acquaintance with St. Paul's, having been inside it once. It was not, however, burnt down at the time.  
  
I have never been to the year 2032. I do not know what happened to Maglor. I do not know if Tolkien envisaged a Fifth Age. You may have gathered that I do not know all that much.  
  
Cloaked Eagle 


	2. Time

DISCLAIMER: The basic plot is mine. The Dragon War is mine. Practically everything else isn't.

Time

_Time passes so slowly these days_, reflected Maglor. Back in the First Age, when they had been fighting Morgoth, the years had rushed past, Mortals seeming to grow old almost before they had been born.

But that had been long ago. By the end of the Third Age, he had found himself entrenched in Time almost as the Atani were, counting the days. But of course, he had had nothing to count down to, no homecoming. He had had two permanent homes, in all his long years. One lay under the waves, the other was beyond his reach, in Valinor.

And the Fourth Age had dragged on, millennium after millennium. All the realms of the Third Age, the great cities of Men, in Gondor, Harad, and all the rest, had fallen into ruin. Men had forgotten that they lived in the Fourth Age, had started counting the years on a variety of different systems, starting from the deaths of Kings, the rise of nations, whatever they came up with. But Maglor had remembered, still counting the years of the Fourth Age of the Sun, waiting.

And then it had ended, unexpectedly. A new Dark Lord had arisen, a fallen Maia, a dragon of Morgoth, crawling from the caves beneath the Misty Mountains – the Great Barrier, they called them now – like a great black snake. He had stayed out of the Dragon War, but heard that the Men had shown great strength of heart, mind and body, almost worthy of the Eldar of old.

With the fall of the Dragon, the Fourth Age had ended, unmarked by any save the last son of Fëanor. And now, five hundred and thirty years later, Maglor had grown weary of the world. He was the last of his people, the last of the Elves still living in Middle-Earth, but his fëa grew weary of the body it supported. He wanted only to lie down, and let his spirit fade away, as Men did.

But that he could not do. The spirits of Elves could not fade, but must travel to the Halls of Mandos on leaving their bodies. They were summoned, and could not defy –

Maglor froze, as a thought struck him. _The whole of the First Age was a consequence of our defying Mandos. It can be done. I could ignore the Summons_, he thought. _I could stay here, spread my fëa out, become part of this world_.

_But what of my family?_ he thought then. He couldn't just leave them with no chance of ever knowing his fate. But then he remembered a tomb he had once seen, a tomb of a Man who had wanted to be remembered. His name and deeds had been inscribed on the wall, with a map of where he lived.

In an instant, Maglor formed a plan. Looking down at his feet, at the soil where once Hobbits had walked, he knew he stood on the spot where his tomb would lie. Turning, he faced the West.

"I am sorry, my kin," he said, his voice brittle from disuse. "I will not return to you. Never again will I come among Elvenkind, never again will I see the shores of Aman. But some day, you will know what I have done, what became of me."

He almost lay down and died right them, but there was much to do before he could go to his rest peacefully. There were places he had to go first, or one place, at least.

He had to prepare the way for those who would take word of him to his family. One last ship would sail into the West, and he had to build it. To do this, he had to travel to a site of power, a site where the touch of the Elves still lingered, even after so long.

He had to go to Lothlórien.

* * *

I apologise for this chapter, I really do. I worked on it, but there are a few sections that just will _not_ work properly. But the chapter had to be in there, otherwise a lot of what happens later would make no sense.

And I considered posting the Maglor chapters as a separate story, but decided on alternating instead. I hope it doesn't confuse anyone too much.

Cloaked Eagle


	3. Linguistics

DISCLAIMER: Well, I own most of this chapter. The ULU, Bob, Joe, Sandra and Mary . . . I don't own Middle-earth or Maglor. That's about it. Oh, or St. Paul's.

Linguistics

The phone rang, waking Joseph Nesmith from a light sleep. The young Professor of Linguistics sat up in his chair, and picked up the handset.

"Hello, Professor Nesmith, Linguistics, United London Universities, how can I help you?"

"Hi Joe, it's Robert Taylor."

"Bob? Long time no see. Where are you working these days?"

"My team's based up in Felixstowe, but I'm on site in London right now. In fact, it's about that that I need to talk to you."

Joe sat up straighter. Bob's team had their own linguist, one of his own students, Sandra Newton, so for them to need to call him in . . . "You've found something? Something rare?"

There was a crackling noise at the other end of the line, and then, "You know those books by . . . that guy, uh, the ones about Middle-earth."

Joe smiled. Bob had never been too good with names. "You mean Tolkien?"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. Anyway, you know you'd said you'd learned those Elvish languages of his?"

Joe frowned. This all seemed very irrelevant. "Yes . . ."

Bob was silent for a long moment, and then said, "We've got something here you really need to see. Could you come over to St. Paul's? As in, now?"

Joe thought for a moment. Unlike the various establishments that had existed in pre-Fire London, the ULU had a flexible schedule, to allow staff and students to spend time assisting in rebuilding their city. No one would comment if he took a day off. And besides, he was intrigued. "Okay Bob, I'll be there in two hours."

"We'll be waiting," replied Bob, and hung up.

An hour and a half later, Joe Nesmith stood at the top of the shaft in the centre of St. Paul's Cathedral, looking down at the marrow stairway he had to descend. Next to him stood the loudspeaker, through which Bob had welcomed him and told him to descend the stair. That very fact reinforced Joe's view that something big had been found – normally, Bob would greet any guests personally, so for him to stay in the pit, it had to be a big find. Either that, or they were running some sort of huge practical joke on him.

As Joe descended the stair, he watched the walls beside him, as Bob had done when making the very same journey. When he came to the carving, however, he stopped dead. _Tengwar!_ he thought.

The first lines of the inscription were formed of the letters J.R.R. Tolkien had invented for his world. Almost unconsciously, Joe translated the words they spelled, reading the Quenya almost as quickly as he would English.

_I, Maglor son of Fëanor, departed this world . . . something about the year 532 of the Fifth Age of the Sun. The sentence . . . must be phrase . . . is . . . some sort of punctuation mark, probably an inverted comma . . . I want to see. This _must_ be some sort of joke . . . but this carving is so old . . they couldn't have faked it . . . It _must_ be real._

By the time he reached the bottom, Joe was prepared to see just about anything. Nevertheless, the sight of a glowing wall with a map of Third Age Middle-earth was a shock. He stood at the bottom of the stair and stared. After a moment Bob, who stood with his team around the map, fiddling with some cartographical equipment, turned and saw him. "Joe! Hi! Like it?"

"It's, uh . . . what _is_ it?"

Bob looked up at the wall. "It's a map, of Middle-earth. We used the code word from that inscription – do you already know what it says?" Joe nodded. "Good. Anyway, we said that phrase, and this thing lit up. We've been trying to set up a map grid on it, but with no scale or reference point, we haven't got very far."

He paused for a moment, and then added, "Oh, and we've got this inscription we need you to translate." He indicated the tengwar lettering running around the edge of the map. "Can you do that?"

Joe stared at him. "Uh, yes . . . is this _real_?"

Bob nodded. "Very real, Joe. Very real, and very old."

Joe nodded slowly. "So Tolkien was telling the truth after all – he _did_ translate it all from the Red Book. I wonder what the world will make of this?"

Bob smiled. "After you've translated it for us, you'll have all the time you want to tell them."

"Excellent," replied Joe, pulled out his notebook, and began to translate.

* * *

The ULU was formed after the Fire - which wasn't all that long before the current narrative - due to the inability of what few staff remained to run separate universities.

The inscription, as it turns out, could almost all be translated into Quenya from the words we know. Don't worry, this trend will not continue.

Cloaked Eagle


	4. Tribe

DISCLAIMER: The basic geography of Middle-earth belongs to Tolkien, as does Maglor. The marshes, however, are mine, as is the Dragon War and Ghardl. The basic plot is mine.

Tribe

"Well. This could be a problem."

Maglor stared out across the marshes. They stretched as far as he could see, clean to the horizon. He supposed he should have guessed – the seas were still rising after the Dragon War had melted much of the ice in the North, and he suspected that some of the Great Fires the dragon had lit still burned, boiling away water into the atmosphere. And now he had found a sign of it – a huge marshland that, as far as he could tell, cut a large area of Arnor off from the rest of Endor. But to reach Lórien, he had to cross it.

Maglor sat down on a rock, on the very edge of the marsh, and thought. As he sat, his hands moved almost of their own accord, reaching for his harp and tuning it carefully. Once it was set, he glanced down at it, seeming only then to notice that he held it.

"What shall we sing then, old friend?" he asked it. In his years alone amongst Men, he had taken to treating his harp as if it were his kin, speaking to it, keeping his voice perfect. "The Noldolantë, perhaps," he mused, and then nodded slowly. "Yes. On the beginning of the final end to the tale of the Noldor in Endor, I shall sing of the beginning of the tale." And with that, he began to play.

He played his sorrow, his hopes, his betrayals, his own treachery. He played to the marshes, the birds, the sky. After several minutes, he glanced up, and noticed to his surprise that he now played to a small group of Men as well. He reviewed his memories, but could find no sign of their village, or any other evidence of their presence before they had appeared before him. Nevertheless, they did not seem violent, and so he continued to the end of the song before looking at them again.

"Are you . . . the Singer?" asked the leader of the Men in halting, heavily accented Quenya. Maglor blinked.

"You know my language?" he replied in the same tongue. The man seemed to consider for a moment, and then nodded.

"I know it. It is the language of learning, the language they say the Immortals spoke."

Maglor frowned. "Who are these Immortals you speak of?" He had a few guesses, but it was best to be certain.

The Man smiled, and began to speak. As Maglor listened, he realised that this story had been learned by rote, repeated generation after generation.

"The Immortals came to us out of the West, bringing with them Light and Knowledge. They taught us to speak, giving us this language as our first. As time passed, we created our own tongue, but we preserved that of the Immortals out of respect for them.

"After a time, we came to their lands. There we joined with them in battle against the Darkness, an Immortal who had turned to evil, and sought to dominate all the peoples of the World, Immortal and Man alike. But we were victorious, and the Darkness was driven away.

"The Immortals left then, their task completed. They sailed across the seas into the Far West, to new lands that had been created for them. But one remained: the Singer. He was assigned by the leaders of the Immortals to abide here, to watch over Men until they were ready to journey into the Far West and to join the Immortals." The man paused, and looked at Maglor with piercing eyes that reminded him of his father. "We are told that the Singer walks the shores of the World, singing his sorrow in tones more beautiful than any we can create. We have heard your singing, and it seems to fit that description. Are you the Singer? Are we to travel to the Far West at last?"

The desperate hope in the man's voice caused Maglor to pause. He had been about to tell them the true story of the Fading of the Eldar, who were obviously the Immortals these Men remembered. But to do so now would break this man, would ruin his whole way of life. He had to tread cautiously. If he worked this right, he might even earn himself passage across the marsh before him.

"I am indeed the Singer of legend," he said, rising to his feet. "But I am afraid the time has not yet come. There are things that must be done before Men can sail into the Far West, things that I must do, and things that you must do." He paused, seeing understanding dawn in the man's eyes. "I must travel across this marsh, to the lands beyond. If you can assist me, I will . . ." Maglor paused again. What could he do for them? He had no possessions other than his harp and clothes, both of which he would need. Then he remembered. "If you can assist me, I will, on my return, show you a site suitable for a large village, even a town. It has a river, fertile soil for animals and plants, everything you will need."

The man considered this, and then nodded. "You did not need to offer anything, Singer, but the fact that you did so shows that you are indeed one of the Immortals. We will guide you across the marshes, and on your return, we will follow you to this site. My name is Ghardl."

The name was harsh compared to the eloquent Quenya of a moment before, but Maglor smiled nonetheless. "I thank you, Ghardl. Please, begin. The sooner I cross these marshes, the sooner I can return to you."

* * *

The story told by Ghardl is a rather distorted version of the Silmarillion.

Quenya was the tongue of learning even in the Third Age, and it seems reasonable to assume that it would have been kept for that purpose even up to the Fifth.

And in case you hadn't guessed, the Marsh is surrounding more or less the area that is now Britain.

Cloaked Eagle


	5. Transportation

DISCLAIMER: Most of this chapter belongs to me, actually. Any mentions of characters or places from Tolkien do not.

Transportation

Joe Nesmith stood up, realising from the ache in his knees just how long he'd been kneeling before the inscription. Looking around, he noticed with some surprise that the chamber was empty, that the archaeological team had left at some point. Glancing down at his watch, he discovered the reason – he had been lost to the world for several hours.

Sighing, he walked up the staircase, letting the climb loosen up his aching joints. A third of the way up, he stopped, frowned at the topmost line of the inscription, and made a note on his sheet of paper. Then he continued up.

On reaching the top Joe made for the tent where, sure enough, Bob was waiting, along with Sandra and another girl who Joe didn't know. Sitting down in a collapsible chair, he said, "I've got it. Well, most of it."

The girl frowned. "Only most?"

Bob sighed. "Be nice, Mary." Then he turned to Joe. "So was some of it illegible, or what?"

Joe shook his head. "It's not that. It's just that, well, we only have a couple of thousand words of Quenya available to us. Quite frankly, I'm amazed I could translate as much as I could."

"So what does it say?" asked the girl named Mary impatiently. Joe smiled at her impetuousness, and pulled out his notebook.

"It's all written down here. I won't try to read it out." He threw the notebook onto the table and let them read, in his neat handwriting, the words of the map.

'If you are reading this [noun, singular, seems to be related to 'word', possibly 'message'], you have seen [unknown word] my [possibly 'message'] and my [noun, singular, related to 'land', perhaps 'map'] . I [verb, aorist tense, very likely 'hope'] that you are able to [verb, infinitive, related to 'read'] my words, otherwise all hope is lost for me. You [verb, present tense] now on the westernmost star on the [perhaps 'map']. The easternmost star is over the [noun, plural, almost certainly 'mines' from context] of Khazad-Dûm, wherein [unknown word] the dwarves [verb, past tense]. Now the caverns [verb, aorist tense] [unknown word, related to 'one'] [possibly 'message]. I ask you [verb, infinitive] the wishes of the last son of Fëanor [verb, unknown tense, related to 'go'] to Khazad-Dûm and following the [noun, plural, related to 'command', perhaps 'instructions'] [verb, passive participle] [unknown word]. The phrase is 'Makalaurë antanë nyen sina quetta'.'

Sandra finished reading and frowned. "So he wants us to go to some random spot and say some random phrase for him. Does anyone else think this is crazy?"

Bob shook his head. "It's crazy, Sandra, but it's also right. Remember, this guy's been dead for, well, millennia. At least a hundred and twenty thousand years, assuming equal times between the translations on the inscription. It might be longer. The least we can do is fulfil his last wishes."

Sandra considered, and then nodded reluctantly. "I guess you're right. So . . . how are we going to get there?"

Joe raised a hand. "I can help there. The ULU has a standing agreement with BA&S that says faculty members can use their sub-orbital jets free, taking up to three companions with them. Considering they get first pick of our Air/Space graduates, rather than NASA or the ESA, everyone's happy. So, shall I give them a call?"

Bob stared. "Uh, yes, then. Assuming Mary and Sandra want to come."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Mary immediately. Sandra merely nodded.

"Right then," said Joe. "I have to go back to campus to make the call, but I'll call you once I know the time of the flight, and I'll see you at the airport."

And that was how Bob Taylor, Mary Cloud, Sandra Newton and Joe Nesmith found themselves aboard a British Air- & Spaceways ballistic shuttle, being launched from Heathrow launch platform and reaching the edge of space before being carried in a fast orbit to the airspace of what had been Germany before the formation of the United States of Europe, on their way to a cavern almost as old as the human race.

* * *

Yes, I'm inventing organisations all over the place, and giving them possibly-inappropriate technology. But it made the story possible.

As far as I can tell, the inscription can be translated using what Quenya is known to us, excluding the words in square brackets. Any mistakes in that are, I'm afraid, author error.

Cloaked Eagle


	6. Civilisation

DISCLAIMER: The locations are Tolkien's, as is Maglor, but what has happened to them is my own invention.

Civilisation

Ghardl and the Marshes of Arnor were far behind, and Maglor was descending the eastern side of the Pass of Caradhras – still extant, though now known as the Great Gate – before the next unexpected thing happened. The clouds which had masked his view of what had once been the Dimril Dale suddenly cleared, and he could see clear down to the sight of Lothlórien. What he could see, however, astonished him.

A great city stood where the Golden Wood had once grown, its suburbs sprawling halfway to the Dimril Dale itself, its centre straddling the confluence of the Anduin and the Celebrant. Maglor was stunned. His plans had involved travelling to Cerin Amroth, or perhaps to Caras Galadhon itself, but clearly his opinions of his cousin Artanis' power had been too high. He had assumed the site would still be held sacred, and would consequentially be avoided. Apparently, he had been wrong.

As an elf, Maglor could not have possibly understood the human habit of building on sites of power, rather than revering them. The Eldar could sense such power for what it truly was, but the Atani merely saw a place where strange things happened, and tried to contain it. If he had travelled further, he would have discovered cities at Rivendell, Isengard, Ithilien, and even the site of Barad-Dûr itself, humans having no way to distinguish between the powers of Good and Evil. But he did not know this, and only saw a great mass of humanity keeping him from his goal.

Incensed, the son of Fëanor strode down the Dimril Stair, prepared, if need be, to go to the ruler of the city and demand that they leave the site immediately, under pain of death. Whether he would have succeeded was not to be discovered however, for as he passed the lower end of the Mirrormere a great burst of power struck his mind from the west, and he halted. Turning slowly on one leg, he followed the path of the power . . . and found himself facing the site of the East-gate of Khazad-Dûm, the great Dwarrowdelf.

_Of course_, he thought, _it was obvious_. Seeing the fading of their realm, and predicting the influx of Men that would, sooner or later, occur, the Elves of Lórien would have taken whatever power remained and secured their legacy in the Mines. Perhaps it had been specifically arranged to signal any passing Elf, or perhaps he had merely been lucky. Either way, he knew now where he had to go.

Swiftly ascending the rocky slope that had once been a stair, Maglor came to the rock face that hid the Gate. Muttering the words of power that would reveal the doors, he frowned. The strength of these gates was greatly weakened, and if he had come but a few hundred years later, he might not have been able to open them at all. But he had come in time. Saying aloud the simple word that signalled his wish to enter – 'Mellon', as with the West-gate – he stepped back as the stone of the Doors cracked, pushing aside grass and stone alike to reveal the dark interior.

Stepping into the cavernous First Hall, he squinted into the gloom. The windows that had once lit it had long been filled, pouring stone and earth into the hall. Nevertheless, his eyes began to make out shapes, and he saw that, despite the age of the Mines, some of the pillars at least still stood.

The corridor at the far end was blocked, leaving access to the rest of the mines impossible, but Maglor saw that he did not need to go any further. What he had taken for pillars were not stone, but wood. Great mellyrn, still standing after thousands of years, preserved in a timeless moment by a Working such as that Yavanna had laid on all the plants of Middle-earth in the time after the Fall of the Lamps. Lothlórien's legacy – and the conclusion of Maglor's plan – remained. Moving swiftly to the nearest tree, the last son of Fëanor began to sketch in his mind the boat that would take word of his fate home.

* * *

The distance between Moria and Lórien may have been contracted slightly, but I've tried to make it believable. Judge for yourself.

Cloaked Eagle


	7. Geography

DISCLAIMER: Well, the Mines of Moria belong to Tolkien, as does the concept of swan ships. Other than that, it's mostly mine.

Geography

"This is _stupid_!"

"What, do you want to give up and go home?"

"Well, yeah. Why are we following the orders of some dead guy anyway?"

"Don't you know the meaning of the word 'honour'?"

"Don't you know the meaning of the word 'profit'? It's what we're not making out here!"

"Enough." Bob stood up from where he had been using his laptop to try and pinpoint the location of the doorway they sought, and glared at the two girls. "First off, Sandra, we are not losing any money by being here. This is an authorised expedition to follow up on information found at an archaeological site. Understood?"

Sandra nodded, subdued. Beside her, Mary smirked. Her triumphant expression vanished, however, when Bob continued speaking.

"As for you, Mary, you know better than to argue over things like this. We are here as a team, you understand?" At her nod – as subdued as Sandra's had been – he continued. "Good. Now, where is Joe?"

Mary looked at Sandra and, seeing she wasn't going to answer, said, "He's gone off that way." She pointed towards a nearby hill, and added, "I think he decided you weren't going to find it, and just started walking around yelling."

At that moment they heard the faint sound of Joe Nesmith's voice. He was obviously shouting, but from quite some distance away. "Makalaurë antanë nyen sina quetta... ai!" A brief cloud of dust rose over the top of the hill, and a low rumble reached the three archaeologists. They looked at each other, and then, as if by silent agreement, ran towards the hill.

As he struggled up the hill after Mary and Sandra, Bob dreaded what he might see. The mere thought of his old friend lying dead at the bottom of a pit was enough to make his blood run cold.

It was quite a relief, therefore, when he crested the mound to see Joe standing beside a six-foot-wide circular hole in the soil, staring into its depths. Looking up, he saw the trio and waved them down.

"I was calling the words out every hundred yards or so – I'm surprised you didn't hear me – while walking towards that hill," explained Joe, once they were all gathered around the hole. "I'd just about decided to head back and bring the car over when this great beam of some sort of energy shot out of the ground, knocking me back a bit, and leaving this hole. If you look at the sides, you can see it's almost as well-formed as that one you people use to get down to that room beneath St. Paul's. If I had to guess, I'd say the soil was melted and solidified again in an instant, although how, I don't know."

"Interesting," commented Bob, staring into the hole. "You say this happened in response to you saying those words?" At Joe's nod, he continued. "I'd say this is our spot, then. Mary, be a dear and run back and get the car, will you?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "Yes, milord," she replied, and dashed off. Bob looked at the other two.

"Did I do something wrong?"

Joe looked at Sandra, and then back at Bob. "You have many virtues, Bob," he said, "but talking to women is not one of them."

Bob sighed. "I suppose you're right. Computers are much easier to handle." He sat down on the edge of the hole and, in a fit of childishness, started dropping bits of rock in to see if he could hear them hit the bottom.

A few minutes later, Mary arrived in the car. Working with practiced speed, the archaeologists set up the car-mounted winch and tested the depth of the hole. Seeing the numbers, Joe whistled in disbelief. "That's a long way down."

Bob nodded. "It's been a long time. The soil builds up. Did you never watch _Time Team_ as a kid? I know it was still running."

Joe shook his head. "Not my kind of thing, I'm afraid. So you're saying dirt piles up over time? Kind of like the way dust collects under a bed?"

"Ah... something like that," replied Bob diplomatically. Quickly changing the subject, he asked, "Mary, have you got that winch ready for me?"

"Yes, Bob," she replied. He nodded, and quickly put the harness on.

"Torch? Ah, thank you, Sandra. Camera? Thank you. Now, I'll film all the way down, and call you when I reach the bottom." He stepped over to the hole, sat down on the edge, and lowered himself in. Turning back to the group, he waved at Mary. "All set. Lower away."

The hole stretched away below him, but Bob did not look down. Instead, he studied the sides of the hole, seeing the strata of millennia pass him by. He knew there were things here he could never hope to identify, but that was what the camera was for.

Suddenly the light of his torch stopped reflecting off the melted stone of the shaft and instead stabbed into the darkness of a vast cavern. Moments later, his feet touched the floor, and he signalled for Mary to stop the winch. Before unfastening the harness, however, he whispered "Makalaurë antanë nyen sina quetta" into the darkness. Sure enough, a section of the wall, which he had come down near through something probably not a coincidence, crumbled away. In the cavity behind it sat a ship of silver-grey wood, carved in the likeness of a swan, lit by the soft light of a wall on which the now-familiar glowing shapes of the tengwar surrounded what seemed to be a starscape.

"Guys," he said into the radio, "We've found it." And he turned the camera to point at the ship.

* * *

The time between updates may grow slightly longer - this is the last chapter I have written so far, so I'll probably be posting as I finish them.

Cloaked Eagle


	8. Mountains

DISCLAIMER: The events in this chapter are mine. Most of the rest isn't.

Mountains 

As Maglor closed the gates behind him, sealing them for all eternity, he felt a strange weight lift from his shoulders. Whatever happened now, the last grey ship was built. He could go to his rest knowing that, someday, someone would find it, and sail it to Valinor at last.

_No_, he thought, frowning, _I cannot be sure of that yet. There is more to do first._ He still had to build his tomb, and carve the inscription that would guide his messengers to their vessel. And to do _that_, he had to return to his point of origin. Sighing, he turned to face the Misty Mountains, and began to walk.

He made fairly good time, and reached the highest point of the Pass of Caradhras sooner than he had expected. However, Caradhras had not forgotten its hatred of Elves and Dwarves. It would not let him escape so easily.

The snowstorm struck out of a clear sky, clouds boiling in from the north like a great black tide. At first, Maglor stopped, sitting down under an overhang to wait it out. By the time the snow had reached a foot deep, and with snowflakes up to two inches across falling, he had realised his mistake. Standing up, and thanking Ilúvatar that elves could walk on snow, he set off down the west face of the Redhorn.

Soon enough he discovered that walking on snow was only half the battle. The wind blew fiercely from the west, howling around the rocks like a pack of wargs that had caught a scent. At times it felt like an invisible hand, pushing him backwards, so that he had to fight for every step. Onwards he pressed, until he felt he could go no further, and then further, pushing himself to his limits and beyond. _So this is what it was like_, he thought in a moment of clarity, _to cross the Helcaraxë_.

He had never before understood how his cousins and uncle had managed it, how they could have walked over those miles of freezing ice, how they could have kept going with the knowledge that they could die any moment. He did now. There, on Caradhras, when death was so close he could practically taste it, he knew what it was like to lose all sense of self to the blistering cold, to exist in a state words could not describe. _For_, he thought before finally surrendering thought, _when there are no words left to describe it, there is only the thing itself._

It could have been minutes or days later that he finally reached the bottom of the pass, blue with cold, frostbitten in most of his fingers and toes, and ready to collapse. As soon as he reached the nearest forest, and had left the snow behind him, collapse he did, taking the time only to pull his cloak tightly around himself before falling into the trance-like state adopted by elves near to death. He knew no more for several days.

* * *

The Helcaraxë is the Grinding Ice that the followers of Fingolfin had to walk over to reach Middle-earth.

I am very sorry that this chapter took so long to write, and that it's so short. I am trying to get back into writing these stories, and have three chapters of the sequel to _Darkness Falling_ written, but a lot of my time has been taken up with writing a screenplay for a planned Silmarillion fan-film. The script, adapted into narrative form, will eventually be put up here as a new story. However, this will probably not be for a while.

For anyone hoping for more chapters of _The Advancement Of Learning_ any time soon, I'm also sorry. I've gotten halfway through a chapter, but it's so convoluted that it needs a total rewrite. Preferably one that doesn't involve Parmiel explaining why she's never met a Vala. If I get bored enough, I might stick up the half-chapter as a separate story.

Cloaked Eagle


	9. Sailing

DISCLAIMER: Maglor belongs to Professor Tolkien. So does Valinor. I think everything else here is mine.

Sailing

"Bob, you can't."

Robert Taylor sighed, and looked at the other members of his team. "Does it seem to anyone else like we've had this conversation before?" he asked, in a desperate attempt at levity. Mary and Joe, however, didn't even smile. Bob thought that rather unfair, but maybe Sandra's mood was upsetting them. "Okay, Sandra," he said, "you don't think we should take the boat and follow the instructions."

"Not just _that_," Sandra Newton replied. "First off, you'd have to get that boat out of the cave. Then you'd need to get it over to the ocean. Then, you'd _still_ be following maps and star-charts thousands of years out of date. How do you think this is workable, Bob, really?"

Bob frowned. "It has to be, Sandra," he said. "We can't come this far and then just give up. We've _got_ to take the ship – the _Sinda Cirya Métima_ – and tell Maglor's family what happened to him. We just _have_ to."

"Now, look," Sandra began, but was cut off by a snort of laughter from Joe Nesmith. "What?" she snapped.

Joe shook his head, still smiling. "Nothing. Just remembered a word." At Bob's raised eyebrow, he rolled his eyes. "Swarn. It's a Nandorin word, means stubborn, obstructive, that sort of thing. I just thought it described the two of you perfectly."

Bob frowned, sidetracked. "Nandorin?"

"Er, Green-Elven. The language of those elves who tended to stick to the trees, avoiding warfare and so on."

"It's not _relevant_, then?" asked Sandra. Joe shook his head, chastened, and she turned back to Bob. Fortunately, the team leader had now had time to think.

"Sandra," he said, before she could launch into another tirade, "you're concerned with the money we'd lose in this enterprise. That's admirable, and I agree that we cannot simply abandon the St. Paul's dig. Even with the inscription finished, there's bound to be all sorts of other stuff under there, right?" Sandra nodded, and Bob smiled. "However," he continued, "think of the profit we'd get from an expedition to Valinor. From what I remember, the dust on the streets there is diamond."

Sandra snorted. "I've heard _that_ one before," she said, but Bob thought he detected a little uncertainty in her voice. After all, they _were_ dealing with a race of immortals, a single member of which had made inscriptions – and a ship – beyond anything created by Man.

"Even if it's not true," he said, "the possibility of seeing architecture built over thousands of years by the same hands is truly staggering." He glanced at the others, trying to guess their reaction to his upcoming proposal. Joe, he saw, looked very uncertain, whereas Mary, judging from what she'd said earlier, would gladly go on this trip just for the sake of doing it. "The same goes for everything else – gardens, art, language. They'll doubtless be far more beautiful and advanced than our equivalents." _That_ got Joe's attention, as he'd known it would. The man was, and always had been, obsessed with his languages.

"Sandra," Bob said, "I'm not going to order anyone to come along on this trip. If necessary, I'll go alone. I will not, however, turn down anyone who asks to go with me. I'll also pay for the transport of the ship out of my own pocket."

"Bob, no!" exclaimed Mary Cloud, appalled. "It's an archaeological project, we-"

"No, it isn't," said Bob and Sandra in unison. "You know what we're meant to do," Bob continued. "We dig up the things, we don't make off with them, not even following instructions from those who left them. For it to be an archaeological project we'd have to hire a normal boat, and from the instructions down there, I don't think it would work. It has to be that ship, and that means that we'll technically be stealing it." There. He'd said it, and now it was time to see their reactions.

Mary, predictably, didn't care. "We have to do it anyway," she said, stubbornly – _swarnly_, Bob thought irreverently. To his surprise, though, Joe nodded.

"I agree," the Professor said. "We may be taking one find, but we'll bring back a record of an entire culture. It's worth the price." Bob smiled in thanks, and then looked at Sandra questioningly.

The linguist sighed. "I still don't think it's right, but I won't stop you. I won't come with you, though," she added hastily. "You're on your own in this. I'll be going back to London to get back to work." She paused, and then said, "I'll tell the team that you're engaged in continued investigations out here. And, if you need any more equipment…"

Bob let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Thank you, Sandra," he said. "That's all we can ask of you."

Sandra smiled. "No," she said, "you could ask a lot more. But you and I both know you wouldn't _get_ it."

Bob laughed. "The team will be lucky to have you as a leader, Sandra Newton," he said. "Something tells me I won't be getting my job back when I return."

"Optimist," muttered Joe, but Mary had another comment in mind. "What, Bob?" she asked, eyes sparkling. "You think _you_ are the team leader? Oh the delusions we make ourselves…"

* * *

Um. Okay, so the delay between the last chapter and this was somewhat longer than I thought it would be. I can't really offer any excuses, but I'll try to finish this off - only three chapters to go, we _are_ winding it up - before posting any new 'fics. I actually have several sitting around in various states of completion, but I learnt my lesson when I posted _Of Time And Sea_ without thinking about how long it would take to do chapter 4.

_Sinda Cirya Métima_is Quenya, the name of Maglor's ship, and, in a willful bit of self-pluggery, means _Last Grey Ship_. Or at least, it should.

Cloaked Eagle


	10. Religion

DISCLAIMER: To avoid spoilers, I'll just say that anything you recognise belongs to Professor Tolkien, even if you don't _fully_ recognise it.

Religion

Maglor was tired, filthy and wounded when he stumbled into the village on the edge of the marshes. He didn't know where he was, and didn't actually care. All that mattered was that he was in something that would pass for civilisation. Surely, even in a Mortal village, they would have someone who could heal him and feed him. Unfortunately, he had no sure way of being able to speak to them, and no energy to do so. Instead, he took the direct approach. Staggering to the centre of the small cluster of huts, he simply curled up on the ground and waited.

Some time later, he awoke with a start to find himself in an enclosed space. There was a fire burning cheerfully next to him, and as his eyes adjusted to the darkness he began to make out the dark shapes of Men – short, like Ghardl had been – clustered on the far side of the fire. One of them noticed his awakening and nudged his neighbour. After a longer sequence of nudging, a woman near the door rose, walked over to where the elf lay, and handed him a bowl.

Maglor looked down into the bowl. It seemed to be filled with some sort of meat in some sort of liquid. Beyond that, he could not tell, but it was hot, so he ate it to warm his chilled bones. When he finished, he smiled and sat up. "I thank you," he said in Quenya to the woman. She returned his words with a blank expression and went back to her place. The Man who had first noticed his movements came over to take her place, kneeling down before Maglor. He opened his mouth, and Maglor braced himself for some incomprehensible Mannish tongue. What he got was far worse.

"Praise Merkot you live," said the man in a harsh tongue that grated in Maglor's ears. _The Black Speech!_ he thought, his mind whirling.

Outwardly calm, he replied in the same language, though it sickened him. "I thank you for your care. Where… where am I?" he asked. The man grinned.

"You are in our village, Master," he replied, "on the edge of the Marshes. We have been waiting for you for a long time. A _very_ long time."

Maglor frowned, trying to make sense of the mortal's words. Could it be that these Men had heard the same stories as Ghardl's people, but merely adopted the wrong language to remember it in? "Why did you await me?" he asked.

At this, the Man's expression grew troubled. "Do you not know?" he asked. "Are you not the mighty Zaron, servant of Merkot the Great Lord of Darkness? Are you not both wise and terrible?"

Maglor stared. This was more than a simple language swap. He had heard 'Merkot' in the Man's earlier speech, but had thought nothing of it. In context, though, it could be no other than Melkor. With great effort, he stammered, "I… I wish to test you," and lapsed into silence.

The Man seemed to accept this, fortunately, and nodded. "You have come, then, mighty Zaron, to cast down our enemies and bring the Hai People to your glorious realm of Lug Bug. There we will sacrifice other men and the accursed Elves to your master and ours, the Lord Merkot."

Maglor nodded, still in shock. To find people who would believe things like this… "Merciful Manwë," he muttered.

Instantly, the Man's expression changed. "You speak the Forbidden Name of the foul Enemy," he said, his expression dangerous. "You cannot truly be Zaron. You have deceived us."

Maglor shook his head rapidly. "No!" he cried. "I have not!" _O sweet Nienna, aid me!_ he thought, but received – of course – no reply. The Men were still angered – more so, in fact – so there seemed to be no aid forthcoming.

The mortal beckoned to two of his people, who rose and walked around the fire, carrying crude yet heavy-looking axes. "It is told in our tales that Zaron and Merkot are so powerful that they cannot be slain by mortal hand," he said, almost conversationally. "If this is true, you have nothing to fear. If it is not…" He grinned, revealing black teeth filed down to points. "If it is not, then we will feast well this night."

Maglor stared in terror as the two axe-men strode towards him. As the first lifted his weapon, the ice in the elf's veins became hot fire. Leaping from the bed where he had been lying, he grabbed the axe and swung. The skull of the second axeman caved in under the blow, and Maglor hurled the axe, spinning, across the space to the leader of the group. It slammed into his neck, crushing both his throat and spine, and provoking cries of outrage from the other humans. By that time, however, Maglor had already leapt over the falling body of the axeman and fled the hut.

Outside it was raining, as it often was in this part of the world. Maglor ducked between two huts and then struck out to the north. The Marshes were ahead of him, promising hours if not days of hard travel, but behind him was a horde of angry men, and that gave him all the energy he needed.

* * *

More linguistic mess, oh yes. 

We're almost there now - two more chapters, I think, and we're through. Unfortunately, nothing of those chapters is actually written, so I can't say when they'll be done. Once they are, though, I'll finally be able to get away from this 'fic - it's getting far too depressing for my liking. I'll get back to something else - most likely the sequel to _Darkness Falling_ - and from there, we'll see.

Cloaked Eagle


	11. Navigation

DISCLAIMER: Valinor and Maglor belong to Professor Tolkien, and I'm very grateful for them and the Quenya language. I think everything else here is mine or no-one's.

Navigation

"This was a bad idea."

Mary Cloud leant back against the mast of the _Sinda Cirya_. "You say this _now_?"

Robert Taylor glared at her. "Yes, I say this now. I didn't think-"

"That's for sure."

"I didn't think it would be this _difficult_," Bob finished, resolutely ignoring Mary's interruption. "I mean, we've got a map. How hard can it be to follow a map?"

"When it's a map of the stars?" Joe Nesmith replied from where he was seated at the prow of the ship. "Very. 'Second star to the right' sort of assumes you've got a starting point."

"Well, don't we?" Mary asked. "The map had the constellations on, right? Orion, the Plough…"

"Menelmacar and the Valacirya, yes," Joe replied. "And we've followed that map. By now we should be onto the Straight Road and sailing through the mists of time. Yet we aren't."

Mary frowned. "Are you saying this is all some sort of trick?"

Joe shook his head, standing and walking over to her. "No chance. The wood this little ship is made of is nothing I've ever seen before, and they way she handles… no human could have built her. And no human could have written those messages."

Mary shook her head. "That last isn't necessarily true. You said yourself, you don't _know_ the words. Couldn't they have made them up?"

"No," Joe replied emphatically. "The primary attribute of Quenya is that it _feels_ right. If you try to make it up, you lose that. It's real."

"Then why are we still in the water?"

"I don't _know_!" Joe slammed his fist against the mast, making both Mary and Bob jump. "I'm not an expert in travelling to Valinor, for all I know, the Straight Road isn't even here any more. Or maybe Maglor was wrong and this ship alone isn't enough to get us onto it. There could be _countless_ explanations for this, and I _just don't know_."

"Hey, now," Mary said, reaching out and patting his shoulder gently, "it's not that bad. I'm sure we'll figure out what's going on in time." She glanced over her shoulder at Bob, who chimed in with his own reassurances.

"Yes, Joe, cheer up," he said. "If all else fails, we can just sail around at random. We know it has to be somewhere around here."

"We know it has to be _exactly_ here," Joe muttered. "That's why Maglor used the stars as a reference – they don't move or change, not since Varda first placed them."

Bob looked at Mary, puzzled. "He hasn't…?" The woman shrugged.

"I suppose not," she replied. "I mean, I didn't mention it, but I just assumed…"

"Well, what archaeologist wouldn't?" Bob asked rhetorically. "It's just one of those things you learn to take into account."

By this time, Joe was looking between the pair. "Would someone _please_ explain what you're talking about before I throw you both over the side?" he asked irritably. Bob nodded to Mary, indicating she could take it.

"It's just that the stars _do_ move, Joe," she explained. "We use it to date some very old specimens, when we're lucky and they have a picture of the sky. We sort of thought you'd taken that into account."

"…" Joe stared at her, then slammed his forehead against the mast. "I've been so _stupid_," he said to the world at large. "I _knew_ that, and yet I never thought about it." He looked at Bob. "Do you have any sort of program that I can use to work this out?"

Bob nodded, handing over his computer. Joe grinned. "_Now_ we're getting somewhere," he said, sitting down again and switching the device on.

"Ah, guys?" said Mary, who was looking down over the side of the ship. "I don't think that's going to be necessary."

Joe exchanged a puzzled look with Bob, then both men went over to her. "What do you… oh. Right."

"Exactly," Mary said, and then fell silent. No one spoke. Somehow, when you were in an elven ship that was suspended some ten metres above the surface of the ocean, and especially when the drips falling from the hull glinted like tiny stars as they fell, there wasn't much need for words.

* * *

The end is in sight! The last chapter is next, and it _should_ be fairly easy to write (I've just cursed myself, haven't I?). It'll wrap up both the plots, and then I'll finally be able to move on to something more cheerful.

Do I have any further adventures planned for Bob, Mary and Joe in Valinor? At this point, no. I have a feeling any effort to do that story would just turn into a 'People fall into Middle-earth' type of 'fic, only with this as a twelve chapter explanation of it. It _might_ be something I do at a later date, but there's also the fact that I don't particularly like writing about the Eldar from an outside perspective. Besides which, with the way this one turned out, they'll probably arrive in Valinor to find everyone dead from a civil war or something.

-- now _that_ might be worth writing.

Cloaked Eagle


	12. Endings, Beginnings

DISCLAIMER: Valinor and environs belong to Professor Tolkien, as does Maglor, and in fact the entire Silmarillion. Bob, Mary and Joe are still mine.

Endings, Beginnings

Maglor looked around at the town Ghardl's people had built. It wasn't much - not when compared with the great cities of the First Age, or even with the city the Secondborn had built at Lothlórien. But it was something, and it had room to grow. Maglor wasn't gifted with foresight, but he had a feeling in his heart that the settlement he had helped bring into being would one day be something great.

At his side, the short man - Maglor had a sudden thought: _Maybe they're related to the Halflings!_ - seemed to guess his thoughts. "It is good land, Singer," he said, in Quenya far more fluent than that he had spoken before. "Almost it seems as fair as the Far West is reputed to be."

"Almost it is," Maglor said sadly. "Almost, but not quite."

Ghardl touched the elf's arm lightly. "My people will see it someday, my friend, and, if the Immortals allow, we two will meet again at last."

Maglor sighed. He had tried to explain what he was doing to Ghardl's tribe, but it seemed it still hadn't registered. Still, they knew enough to do their part, which… "Is it finished?" he asked.

Ghardl nodded. "The pit is fully dug, and you were correct -- the rock goes down far enough. We will not lack for space to carve in for many generations."

"The floor is level? The map is visible?"

"The map is not visible," Ghardl said concernedly. "You know this."

Maglor laughed softly. "Then the space. The space is visible."

"It is. And," he raised a hand to forestall Maglor's next question, "the letters are accessible, and the other inscription, the instruction stone, is prominently placed by the entrance. All is prepared, Singer."

"Then it is my time at last." Lifting his harp, Maglor took one last look around. "I will miss this place," he said softly.

"And it will miss you," Ghardl assured him. "The passing of the last of the Immortals will leave this world much diminished. But, if it must occur…"

"It must," Maglor informed him, and began his last song. He played as he walked slowly down into the pit, the people of Ghardl surrounding him in silence, and when he finished, he lay his harp carefully on the floor and breathed his last.

* * *

The mists still surrounded the _Sinda Cirya_, so it was some time before the passengers realised that they were once again on the water. Mary Cloud only looked down by chance, and even then wasn't sure of what she'd seen. "Bob," she said, "come look here." When Robert Taylor was at her side, she pointed. "I can't quite tell, but do those look like waves to you?"

Bob frowned. "They _might_ be... with this fog, it's hard to-"

There was a loud splash from near the front of the ship, and Joe Nesmith's voice said, "They're waves, all right."

Bob and Mary exchanged a look, and then walked to the prow of the ship, where Joe was standing. "What did you drop?" Bob asked.

Joe shrugged. "Empty water bottle. We've got enough of them, after all."

Mary scowled at him, but refrained from saying anything. Bob peered out into the fog, and said, "Can anyone else see that?"

"See what?" the other two asked in unison. Bob shook his head.

"I can't be sure. Some kind of light..."

"The sun?" Mary asked, halfway between sarcasm and desperation. The mists had taken their toll on her.

"I don't think so," Bob replied. "It's too white, too... directed."

Joe suddenly looked thoughtful. "I think I know what it is," he murmured, "and it means we're close."

"Did you plan on letting the rest of us in on the secret?" Mary asked caustically, but Bob waved her silent and pointed.

"Look."

The three peered out once again, trying to make sense of the vague shadow that had appeared on the horizon, and then...

Then the mists fell away, the sun came out, and the Undying Lands were spread before them, white shores on a sea of glass. The mighty Watchtower of Taniquetil stabbed upwards into the heavens, and on the ocean before them the white ships of the Teleri floated with billowing sails between the Swanhaven and the Lonely Isle. They had arrived.

* * *

And it's done. _At_ last. Believe me, the irony of my note last chapter has not escaped me. But it is finished, after - good grief - two and a half years. I apologise sincerely for the delay.

As I wrote this chapter without reference to my notes, it's possible that this isn't exactly the ending I envisioned. But what does that matter? It works, that's all that matters.

To anyone looking for conclusions to any of my other ongoing stories... well, okay, there's only really one. _Darkness Rising_. I _do_ have four (or possibly five, now, I forget) more chapters all ready to upload, but after that it runs into a bit of a rut. So we'll see. I might not forget this time.

Cloaked Eagle


End file.
